The Hunger Games: The Boy With the Bread
by Allianna2010
Summary: This story follows the exact guidelines set forth by Suzanne Collins in her original work for The Hunger Games trilogy. Every conversation, emotion, movement etc. that was outlined in The Hunger Games series has been painstakingly replicated into this work. I wanted this FanFic to accurately reflect Peeta's side, exactly the mirror to Katniss' story in S. Collins' work.
1. I The Reaping

I

Effie Trinket taps over to the large bowl containing the girls' names. She dips her fingers in amongst many, so very many slips of paper, each written with the name of a potential Tribute. I know that there are thousands of names written more times than is right, is fair – but isn't that a funny thought to be having on Reaping day. I swallow hard.  
After what seems like an eternity – but in reality is only a moment – Effie returns to her microphone. She slowly unfastens the slip of paper, pauses a beat as the name forms on her lips.  
" Primrose Everdeen," she trills.  
My mind reels, and I search the crowd for not the owner of that name, but one who shares her surname. Why her? I wonder, then check myself to make sure I haven't uttered the words aloud. It is never fair when a young Tribute is called, but I know in my heart what will happen. I find the dark hair in the crowd, watch her jaw work even while her body seems paralyzed. Blonde hair catches my eye – it's striking how different they look, though they are full blooded sisters – and I see Primrose Everdeen start making her way up to the stage. This, I can't watch, I know what is going to happen even before she does. I train my eyes on the ground – probably the only eyes not on the scene unfolding – but hear perfectly well. Her voice shatters the silence.  
"Prim!" Her voice cracks at the end of the name, and I can hear movement now. "Prim!" I dare to look up, and watch my prediction come to life. She rushes to catch up to her sister, her lifeline, and does so just in front of the stage. I wish so badly that I could shove the cameras away from this moment, but there they are, every eye, every lens trained on what is happening. Sweeping Prim behind her, Katniss Everdeen shouts the words I knew were coming.  
"I volunteer!" she gasps," I volunteer as Tribute." There's a note in her voice, a sense of urgency, as if she's worried that they won't hear her.  
"Lovely!" Effie coos, looking down on the small knot of people, mostly made up of Peacekeepers, that have formed at the bottom of the stage. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" her voice tapers off as the Mayor steps forward. He mutters something, his eyes betraying his feelings at what's happening in front of him. He looks to have aged ten years in a matter of minutes.  
"What does it matter?" The Mayor's repeated words find their way to the microphone for the rest of us to hear. "Let her come forward."  
The scene is truly heartbreaking. Everyone knows Prim, sweet Prim who wouldn't have the heart to hurt a fly. She's known around the Seam and Merchant areas of District 12 alike. Often I would see her pull Katniss, her polar opposite, to the shop window to look at the treats we keep on display. Every so often she would venture over to the shop window herself, and would smile at me through the weathered glass. Vaguely, a thought – a memory forms – I wonder if she knows…  
She wraps her arms around her sister and wails. I know she's begging Katniss not to go, but what alternative is there? Katniss would never – could never – let her sister go to the Games no matter the cost, even her own life. Especially her own life. She's predictable in that regard. I register movement off to my right; see a form moving towards the group. Deftly, Gale plucks Prim off the ground, unhinging her arms from around Katniss and drags her away from the stage. I swallow hard. I don't know Gale personally, but I hear as much as the next person. He and Katniss hunt outside of our District boundaries, though it is strictly forbidden, and trade in the Black Market known as the Hob. He's my polar opposite on most fronts. I've never strayed from our little compound, never seen life outside of the coal-dusted town.  
"Well bravo!" Squeals Effie, who has a stunned Katniss beside her. "That's the spirit of the games! What's your name?" I gag inwardly at her words. Spirit of the Games, what a joke. The spirit of the Games is built on a thirst for blood brought on by a vengeful overlord Capitol. Most of the population of the Districts – where growing old is not usually an option – weren't even alive during or directly following the Dark Days. It just goes to show exactly what effect a long-standing bitterness can have.  
Katniss' voice is barely audible when she speaks her name in reply. She stands tall and proud on the stage, fists clenched at her sides. Only her eyes betray her fear.  
"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest Tribute!" Effie says, trying hard to bring an upbeat note to this occasion. She claps a few times herself. Being from the Capitol, how is she to know that this occasion is a day of dread for the rest of us, not a holiday to celebrate? She should know, says a little voice in my head. She should know that she's gathering children for slaughter.  
For an eternity, nobody moves. Silence. This in itself is a bold move; our District refusing to acknowledge the feeling of celebration that the Capitol wants us to embrace. I see movement out of the corner of my eye, then another. Slowly, we all make the same motion; we bring our middle three fingers to our lips then outstretch our arms towards the stage. It's an old, almost forgotten tradition in 12 which makes the motion that much more shocking; it's a way of us to silently say "thank you. Good-bye." I cannot imagine this act of defiance going over well in the Capitol, but I squash that thought before it can form ideas as to what shape our punishment will take.  
Katniss stares in bewilderment at her District. I feel a swelling in my throat, but that's as far into the emotion I go. She probably doesn't even remember that day with the bread outside of my family's bakery. She doesn't know how her song captured my heart all those years ago. How I've been trying to catch her eye for years, trying to work up the nerve to speak to her. I vow to go and see her in the Justice building after the reaping. I have no idea what I will say to her, but it is suddenly of utmost importance that I do.  
Haymitch, the only living Victor in District 12, chooses this time to make his grand entrance. He's stumbling and visibly very drunk. His words slosh as he speaks. "Look at her. Look at this one!" He bellows, not needing a microphone to reach everyone in the crowd. Katniss tries to shy away, but gets wrapped in his unwelcome, unsteady embrace despite her best efforts. He slings his arm around her shoulders, looking about as steady as the liquid coursing through his veins. "I like her! Lots of…" he stumbles, looking for the evasive word, "spunk!" He finishes victoriously. "More than you!" He releases Katniss of holding him upright and staggers to the front of the stage, pointing. "More than you!"  
There seems to be an electric current in the crowd at his words. First the united front of respect and graitiude for Katniss, now this; a Victor seeming to challenge the Capitol itself. Some will take it as nothing more than rambling from a drunken man who doesn't know where he is or who he's addressing. Guaranteed that is how the Capitol is spinning it right now as the whole thing is broadcast live across Panem. Mercifully, this point is driven home as Haymitch loses balance and teeters over the edge of the stage, knocking himself out. I release the breath I haven't been aware I was holding. Perhaps it will just be overlooked as incoherent rambling, after all, not lumped together with today's other inflammatory events.  
"What an exciting day!" Effie, who is noticeably disturbed, clears her throat, trying to lose the warble that has crept its way into her voice. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute." She quickly tip-taps over to the bowl containing the boys' names. Her lips are pursed even tighter than they were before, draining the blood from the edges. She makes no show about digging around for a name, and hurries back to her spot. It's clear she wants to get this over and done with so she can be on her way back to the lap of luxury. I can almost hear her begging to be upgraded to a more glorious District, or at least one without a single, drunken Victor who tries to molest you in public.  
I feel my pulse quicken, along with most of the District's, as Effie unfolds the paper. "Peeta Mellark!"  
I realize for the briefest of moments that due to the recent events, I didn't even have time to worry too much about my own name being drawn. It takes a moment to register; my mouth works as if it's chewing on the letters, digesting the meaning. I feel like I've been punched. I feel eyes on me, and the crowd collectively takes a step or two back from me, as if being a Tribute is contagious. I hear mumbling around me and it registers somewhere in my brain that a few of my friends are apologizing needlessly, wishing me luck. I nod dumbly back at them, and a path clears for me to pass easily to the aisle where I will walk my last steps as a free man. I know I will not walk these steps again. In District 12, the word "Tribute" is practically synonymous with "Death" and I know that I am no exception. Beyond that, the plan forming in my muddled brain will clinch my death sentence.  
Shaking my head to clear it, I try to walk as boldly as possible to take my place along the stage. I realize my jaw is slack, mouth slightly open, and set it solidly instead. I glance at Katniss, who is staring blankly straight ahead. I clench my trembling hands into fists, hoping that it isn't obvious how terrified I am.  
"Are there any volunteers?" Effie asks, her voice shrill. Of course there aren't. Family ties only go so far. I scan the crowd, finding my mother, father and oldest brother – too old to volunteer even if he would – standing in the sidelines. My mother is avoiding my gaze. My father's face is ashen, and he looks so very tired. Blyne is staring straight back at me; his eyes – whole shades lighter than mine – look sad. He knows, too, that I will not be returning. Raff, in the crowd not far from where I was standing, glances up at me briefly, teeth grinding, before his eyes return to drilling holes in the ground. It registers somewhere in my unconscious that Gale hasn't volunteered to go in and protect Katniss. My chest swells selfishly; I'm silently glad nobody has volunteered in my place. Maybe I can help District 12 have a Victor again this year, but I have no plans on it being myself.

II

The Mayor starts to recite the Treaty of Treason as he does every year. I let the words jumble into nothingness, and take the time instead to let my predicament sink in. I haven't ever spoken to Katniss in person, haven't ever held her hand or felt her embrace, and yet I find myself jubilant that I just might be able to help her come home to a family that needs her. Even if that family would then include Gale, I realize, a pang of pain running through me. I may be able to give her life once more, and that is what I hang on to.  
His speech finished, the Mayor steps back and Effie motions for Katniss and me to shake hands. My heart jumps as I take her hand in mine; her skin is cool to the touch, her slim fingers are juxtaposed against the calluses earned in this tough life in 12. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze, and her grey eyes catch mine, confused, working through a memory. Then she's lost, resigning to her own world of hurt.  
We are taken into custody, for lack of a better word. Peacekeepers push in and it is made blindingly obvious that there is no escape, and usher us into the Justice building. We are lifted by the building's failing elevator – the only one in the District – to the area where we will say our final goodbyes to our friends and loved ones.  
I decide in that moment that I will let my emotions show, in the hopes that I may play off of sympathies. My family is the first in to see me. My mother's face has taken on a hard look; it's hard to see past her mask of indifference. My father, crestfallen, looks like all the wind has been taken from his sails; his shoulders slump forwards in defeat. My father and I have always been close, sharing inside jokes and talking about things past, present and in the future… a future I've been robbed of, now. I have to force it a little, but my eyes well up and I allow myself to snivel – I'm glad to appear slightly weaker, if it will help Katniss get back home. My thoughts are coming in a rush, I have to cast them aside for now and focus on the task at hand – the final moments I will ever have with my family.  
My mother pulls me into a rigid embrace, which seems awkward for both of us. We have never been on terribly pleasant terms. She tolerates me, as her son I guess she has to, and that's about as close as we have ever gotten. I feel something of a pang of guilt that she and I have never had a relationship, and now never will. Her thin hand grazes a bruise that is in the yellowing stages along my shoulder, one she gave me a few days ago for mishandling this or that. It seems unimportant now and I don't shy away from her touch. Now is a time to set aside differences and say our final goodbyes – goodbyes that must last a lifetime.  
My father takes me in a rough, yet warm embrace, though I can feel that even though I'm his son, it makes him feel awkward. He's not the talkative type, never has been. The twinkle in his eye that is usually ever-present has been extinguished by grief. He doesn't cry, but I notice that he's having to regulate his breathing and seems to be having trouble swallowing a knot in his throat.  
There are warm embraces from both of my brothers, and before Raff can speak, I start in. "Please, Raff, don't think that you could have volunteered for me. You have Eunia here to think about, I would have knocked your head in if you had jepordized your relationship with her. I expect that you will tell my niece or nephew all about me when they finally decide to make an appearance, ok?"  
"You could win," he says back, but we all know that I stand next to no chance. Unless the arena is booby trapped for every other Tribute but myself, we have all accepted that my journey home will be in a box.  
My mother pipes up for the first time. "District 12 might actually have a winner this year," she says. I'm about to argue when her next words slap me hard across the face. "She's a fighter, that one." She seems to realize what she's said at about the same time as the rest of us do, and she at least puts in a half-hearted effort to undo the damage, but I let her words slide off my back, like water off of glass. I know the truth, we all do; she's just been callous enough to utter those words aloud.  
My father tries to right the damage done, but he's never been good with words, other than when he's telling a tale. When he's storytelling, you lose yourself in his words and he paints a picture so vivid in your head that you would swear that you're living in that moment. It's amazing, really, a gift. But he has never been one for dialogue. Flustered, he sits heavily down on one of the elaborate chairs.  
He told me, years ago, that he had fallen for Katniss' mother, and that she had run off with a boy from the Seam. His heart was never quite right after that; one's heart never is when someone steals a part of it. I've confided in him from time to time, so as he looks up at me now, we share a look and he knows. Emotions play across those blue eyes as I hold his gaze, finally he gives me a shallow nod. It's as close to an approval as I will ever get from him.  
The Peacekeepers come back into the room, announcing our time is over. Quick embraces, heartfelt I Love Yous find each other and just like that, they are gone. Friends come next, many too distraught to speak coherently. I offer them humor and a good word instead – it strikes me that I should be the one being comforted, not the other way around, but realize that it's never been that way and never will be.  
We're whisked away to the train station where I will begin my one-way journey to the Capitol. We're forced to stand in front of the crowds at the station like prize hogs on display before the butcher. Katniss stands stoically beside me, her face devoid of any emotion. I'm glad, now, that I've chosen to be open with my feelings. Perhaps it will reflect well upon her. Finally, Effie herds us onto the train and we're on our way.  
The train is, simply put, amazing. Katniss and I both stand at the opening to the first car with our eyes bugged out and mouths open. I trail my finger along a heavily varnished hardwood counter, and think back to the lop-sided table we have at home. At one point I had wedged a piece of wood under one of the legs to try and even it out, but it insisted on listing to one side no matter what. Home. My heart grows heavy at the thought of everything I love being left behind. Almost everything I love, that is. I feel heat growing in my cheeks and quickly duck my head and move into the compartment. Effie tells us to do whatever we want, but be in the dining car for dinner in an hour. She and Katniss immediately retreat to their respective chambers.  
She has always reminded me of a bird. Stoic, beautiful, strong, and perpetually out of reach. Of course it would never do to catch a bird; grounding them for life has always seemed cruel to me.  
I'm drawn in by row upon row of delicate pastries lined up on a sideboard in the car. I'm amazed and immediately jealous by everything the bakers in the Capitol have at their disposal. Cookies, tiny cakes, puff pastries that I couldn't even begin to imagine the complexities of. The amount of food on this one sideboard is astounding. I wonder what will happen if – when – these delicacies aren't eaten; there's no way that our small group will be able to manage eating all of this, even if we ate our way to the Capitol. The amount of sugar, butter, starched flour starts to come to mind; in District 12, sugar is a rarity, and the price brings it out of the question for all but the richest families. I've only tasted it on occasion. Though my family runs a bakery, we eat mostly stale bread that we can't sell, and what little meat we can afford. My family will never be in danger of death by starvation, like a good portion of District 12, but we don't go to bed with full stomachs every night either.  
Suddenly revolted, I push back and turn on my heel to find my room. Instead, I run smack dab into Haymitch's back, almost spilling him on the floor. He turns, furious, his face contorting. A bloom of brandy forms on the front of his shirt.  
"You made me spill my drink," he slurs, slamming the heel of his hand against my chest. Really, if he were sober, it would have hurt. I release back away from the contact instead and let the blow glance off of me. He stumbles forwards and barely catches himself in time.  
I wonder just how drunk he is, and – having never had a drop of liquor in my life – just how much his muddled brain will retain if I talk to him right now. I sigh inwardly and decide that now is probably not the most opportune time. Great mentor we have. I sidestep him even as he's lashing out for me, and continue onwards to my compartment.  
I have never seen or even imagined such luxuries in my life. Glossy varnished hardwood furniture, automatic knick knacks everywhere – for someone whose most complex toy as a boy was a Yo-Yo, it's very overwhelming. I find layer upon layer of fine fabric clothes in the drawers, and once again feel anger welling up inside of me. I look down at the drab clothes I have on, the finest I own, and compared to the Capitol finery I may as well be dressed in a burlap sack. The Capitol has all these luxuries at their disposal – luxuries that the Districts provide them – while we suffer with not enough to eat and clothes that have been handed down until they're too threadbare to decently cover yourself with anymore. I run my hand through my dusty blond hair, frustrated.  
The shower has a million buttons and I'm forced to guess at which means what. At home we have running water – a luxury for District 12 – but it is not reliable and the temperature reflects the weather outside; if it's cold, the water is cold. I've never had a shower before, though I welcome the sensation of water on my body. Just as I'm beginning to relax the water heats up suddenly, almost scalding my skin. I yelp and punch buttons on the panel arbitrarily. There is momentary relief as the water cools down, then another yelp as it turns freezing cold. Foam of some sort jets out at me from all angles, even the floor, and the room fills with the scent of roses. I gasp, quickly washing myself off before the scent clings to me – too late, I realize – and hasten out of the evil bathroom.  
Well, my ego's a bit bruised, but what's new?  
After dressing in what I admit are probably the most comfortable clothes I will ever get to wear, I wander back to the dining car in time for dinner. Effie greets me brightly and says that she'll go get Katniss, but for me to make myself comfortable.  
I sit down in an ornate chair and find myself presented with fine china and real silverware. I heft the fork in my hand and muse at the weight. The table is adorned with glasses and goblets and decorations – since when did anyone need decorations to eat, I wonder. It constantly amazes me, the disparity between the Capitol and its Districts. Things could be so different, if they trusted one another and worked together… I stop that thought immediately, glancing around to make sure that the words stayed inside my head. The mute servants across the room don't register any sign of me saying anything, so I duck my head and concentrate on memorizing the pattern inlaid in the spoon.  
"Where's Haymitch?" Effie asks, her chirpy tone a bit too forced. She tip-taps into the room with Katniss in tow and they take their places at the table.  
"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I lie easily. Truth is, I have no idea where he went and I don't much care either.  
"Well, it's been an exhausting day," she replies, her tone suggests that she's quite happy to have a Haymitch-free meal.  
The meal is served, course by course. When the majority of your diet is stale bread, almost anything is a delicacy, but this is truly a delight. I stuff as much food into me as I can hold, and then some. Partway through the meal, Effie makes a remark commenting on our manners. Katniss looks up, perplexed, and proceeds to eat the rest of her meal with her hands. She's too busy and Effie's too repulsed to notice, but I grin. My stomach starts complaining around the third course, and I notice Katniss is slowing down as well.  
We make our way to another compartment to watch recaps of the Reaping, which is mandatory viewing anyways. It's odd sitting on a fancy couch instead of watching with my family crouched around our old worn out TV, relieved that we've made it another year, but this is my new reality. I lean back in the plush cushioning to assess my new mortal enemies.  
The Tributes from 1, 2 and 4 are naturally imposing. They're known as the Careers; though training for the Games is strictly forbidden, the children in the districts more favored by the Capitol get opportunities to train. Becoming a Victor is so revered in those districts that almost always the position is filled by a volunteer, usually in the older age bracket, eager to prove themselves in the arena. I can't help but wonder if this is another Capitol-infused scare tactic to prove to us that they can play favorites and there's not a thing we can do. At the same time it achieves a sense of distrust between the Districts. Two birds with one stone, as it were.  
We watch as one by one, fledgling Tributes are called and take their place at the front of various crowds. Volunteers spring up from the Career Districts, as anticipated, and the usual mix is flushed out from the other Districts. District 12 is featured last, of course, and instead of paying attention to the screen, I watch Katniss out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if she notices that she stops breathing. I'm vaguely aware of myself mounting the steps and Haymitch's now famous head-dive.  
"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation," Effie remarks coolly. "A lot about televised behavior."  
Leave it to a Capitol resident to bring that up. Television appearances are the last thing anyone worries about in 12, I think to myself. A laugh bursts forth from my mouth, startling even me. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year," I spit out.  
"Every day," Katniss says, smirking. It's the closest thing that we've ever had to a conversation.  
"Yes," Effie mocks, venom in her voice. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"  
As if on cue, Haymitch appears in the car doorway, leaning on it for support. I can smell toxic liquor fumes from my spot on the couch. He staggers a few feet into the compartment, trying to focus his eyes.  
"I miss supper?" he asks, wobbling on foal-like legs. He then proceeds to vomit all over himself and the carpet. He tries to take a step forwards, but trips and lands face-first in the puddle.  
"So laugh away!" Effie hisses on her way past us. Making a face at the stench, she skirts the mess and disappears from view.


	2. II Goodbyes and New Beginnings

II

The Mayor starts to recite the Treaty of Treason as he does every year. I let the words jumble into nothingness, and take the time instead to let my predicament sink in. I haven't ever spoken to Katniss in person, haven't ever held her hand or felt her embrace, and yet I find myself jubilant that I just might be able to help her come home to a family that needs her. Even if that family would then include Gale, I realize, a pang of pain running through me. I may be able to give her life once more, and that is what I hang on to.

His speech finished, the Mayor steps back and Effie motions for Katniss and me to shake hands. My heart jumps as I take her hand in mine; her skin is cool to the touch, her slim fingers are juxtaposed against the calluses earned in this tough life in 12. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze, and her grey eyes catch mine, confused, working through a memory. Then she's lost, resigning to her own world of hurt.  
We are taken into custody, for lack of a better word. Peacekeepers push in and it is made blindingly obvious that there is no escape, and usher us into the Justice building. We are lifted by the building's failing elevator – the only one in the District – to the area where we will say our final goodbyes to our friends and loved ones.

I decide in that moment that I will let my emotions show, in the hopes that I may play off of sympathies. My family is the first in to see me. My mother's face has taken on a hard look; it's hard to see past her mask of indifference. My father, crestfallen, looks like all the wind has been taken from his sails; his shoulders slump forwards in defeat. My father and I have always been close, sharing inside jokes and talking about things past, present and in the future… a future I've been robbed of, now. I have to force it a little, but my eyes well up and I allow myself to snivel – I'm glad to appear slightly weaker, if it will help Katniss get back home. My thoughts are coming in a rush, I have to cast them aside for now and focus on the task at hand – the final moments I will ever have with my family.

My mother pulls me into a rigid embrace, which seems awkward for both of us. We have never been on terribly pleasant terms. She tolerates me, as her son I guess she has to, and that's about as close as we have ever gotten. I feel something of a pang of guilt that she and I have never had a relationship, and now never will. Her thin hand grazes a bruise that is in the yellowing stages along my shoulder, one she gave me a few days ago for mishandling this or that. It seems unimportant now and I don't shy away from her touch. Now is a time to set aside differences and say our final goodbyes – goodbyes that must last a lifetime.

My father takes me in a rough, yet warm embrace, though I can feel that even though I'm his son, it makes him feel awkward. He's not the talkative type, never has been. The twinkle in his eye that is usually ever-present has been extinguished by grief. He doesn't cry, but I notice that he's having to regulate his breathing and seems to be having trouble swallowing a knot in his throat.

There are warm embraces from both of my brothers, and before Raff can speak, I start in. "Please, Raff, don't think that you could have volunteered for me. You have Eunia here to think about, I would have knocked your head in if you had jepordized your relationship with her. I expect that you will tell my niece or nephew all about me when they finally decide to make an appearance, ok?"

"You could win," he says back, but we all know that I stand next to no chance. Unless the arena is booby trapped for every other Tribute but myself, we have all accepted that my journey home will be in a box.

My mother pipes up for the first time. "District 12 might actually have a winner this year," she says. I'm about to argue when her next words slap me hard across the face. "She's a fighter, that one." She seems to realize what she's said at about the same time as the rest of us do, and she at least puts in a half-hearted effort to undo the damage, but I let her words slide off my back, like water off of glass. I know the truth, we all do; she's just been callous enough to utter those words aloud.

My father tries to right the damage done, but he's never been good with words, other than when he's telling a tale. When he's storytelling, you lose yourself in his words and he paints a picture so vivid in your head that you would swear that you're living in that moment. It's amazing, really, a gift. But he has never been one for dialogue. Flustered, he sits heavily down on one of the elaborate chairs.

He told me, years ago, that he had fallen for Katniss' mother, and that she had run off with a boy from the Seam. His heart was never quite right after that; one's heart never is when someone steals a part of it. I've confided in him from time to time, so as he looks up at me now, we share a look and he knows. Emotions play across those blue eyes as I hold his gaze, finally he gives me a shallow nod. It's as close to an approval as I will ever get from him.

The Peacekeepers come back into the room, announcing our time is over. Quick embraces, heartfelt I Love Yous find each other and just like that, they are gone. Friends come next, many too distraught to speak coherently. I offer them humor and a good word instead – it strikes me that I should be the one being comforted, not the other way around, but realize that it's never been that way and never will be.

We're whisked away to the train station where I will begin my one-way journey to the Capitol. We're forced to stand in front of the crowds at the station like prize hogs on display before the butcher. Katniss stands stoically beside me, her face devoid of any emotion. I'm glad, now, that I've chosen to be open with my feelings. Perhaps it will reflect well upon her. Finally, Effie herds us onto the train and we're on our way.

The train is, simply put, amazing. Katniss and I both stand at the opening to the first car with our eyes bugged out and mouths open. I trail my finger along a heavily varnished hardwood counter, and think back to the lop-sided table we have at home. At one point I had wedged a piece of wood under one of the legs to try and even it out, but it insisted on listing to one side no matter what. Home. My heart grows heavy at the thought of everything I love being left behind. Almost everything I love, that is. I feel heat growing in my cheeks and quickly duck my head and move into the compartment. Effie tells us to do whatever we want, but be in the dining car for dinner in an hour. She and Katniss immediately retreat to their respective chambers.

She has always reminded me of a bird. Stoic, beautiful, strong, and perpetually out of reach. Of course it would never do to catch a bird; grounding them for life has always seemed cruel to me.

I'm drawn in by row upon row of delicate pastries lined up on a sideboard in the car. I'm amazed and immediately jealous by everything the bakers in the Capitol have at their disposal. Cookies, tiny cakes, puff pastries that I couldn't even begin to imagine the complexities of. The amount of food on this one sideboard is astounding. I wonder what will happen if – when – these delicacies aren't eaten; there's no way that our small group will be able to manage eating all of this, even if we ate our way to the Capitol. The amount of sugar, butter, starched flour starts to come to mind; in District 12, sugar is a rarity, and the price brings it out of the question for all but the richest families. I've only tasted it on occasion. Though my family runs a bakery, we eat mostly stale bread that we can't sell, and what little meat we can afford. My family will never be in danger of death by starvation, like a good portion of District 12, but we don't go to bed with full stomachs every night either.

Suddenly revolted, I push back and turn on my heel to find my room. Instead, I run smack dab into Haymitch's back, almost spilling him on the floor. He turns, furious, his face contorting. A bloom of brandy forms on the front of his shirt.

"You made me spill my drink," he slurs, slamming the heel of his hand against my chest. Really, if he were sober, it would have hurt. I release back away from the contact instead and let the blow glance off of me. He stumbles forwards and barely catches himself in time.

I wonder just how drunk he is, and – having never had a drop of liquor in my life – just how much his muddled brain will retain if I talk to him right now. I sigh inwardly and decide that now is probably not the most opportune time. Great mentor we have. I sidestep him even as he's lashing out for me, and continue onwards to my compartment.

I have never seen or even imagined such luxuries in my life. Glossy varnished hardwood furniture, automatic knick knacks everywhere – for someone whose most complex toy as a boy was a Yo-Yo, it's very overwhelming. I find layer upon layer of fine fabric clothes in the drawers, and once again feel anger welling up inside of me. I look down at the drab clothes I have on, the finest I own, and compared to the Capitol finery I may as well be dressed in a burlap sack. The Capitol has all these luxuries at their disposal – luxuries that the Districts provide them – while we suffer with not enough to eat and clothes that have been handed down until they're too threadbare to decently cover yourself with anymore. I run my hand through my dusty blond hair, frustrated.

The shower has a million buttons and I'm forced to guess at which means what. At home we have running water – a luxury for District 12 – but it is not reliable and the temperature reflects the weather outside; if it's cold, the water is cold. I've never had a shower before, though I welcome the sensation of water on my body. Just as I'm beginning to relax the water heats up suddenly, almost scalding my skin. I yelp and punch buttons on the panel arbitrarily. There is momentary relief as the water cools down, then another yelp as it turns freezing cold. Foam of some sort jets out at me from all angles, even the floor, and the room fills with the scent of roses. I gasp, quickly washing myself off before the scent clings to me – too late, I realize – and hasten out of the evil bathroom.  
Well, my ego's a bit bruised, but what's new?

After dressing in what I admit are probably the most comfortable clothes I will ever get to wear, I wander back to the dining car in time for dinner. Effie greets me brightly and says that she'll go get Katniss, but for me to make myself comfortable.

I sit down in an ornate chair and find myself presented with fine china and real silverware. I heft the fork in my hand and muse at the weight. The table is adorned with glasses and goblets and decorations – since when did anyone need decorations to eat, I wonder. It constantly amazes me, the disparity between the Capitol and its Districts. Things could be so different, if they trusted one another and worked together… I stop that thought immediately, glancing around to make sure that the words stayed inside my head. The mute servants across the room don't register any sign of me saying anything, so I duck my head and concentrate on memorizing the pattern inlaid in the spoon.

"Where's Haymitch?" Effie asks, her chirpy tone a bit too forced. She tip-taps into the room with Katniss in tow and they take their places at the table.  
"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I lie easily. Truth is, I have no idea where he went and I don't much care either.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," she replies, her tone suggests that she's quite happy to have a Haymitch-free meal.

The meal is served, course by course. When the majority of your diet is stale bread, almost anything is a delicacy, but this is truly a delight. I stuff as much food into me as I can hold, and then some. Partway through the meal, Effie makes a remark commenting on our manners. Katniss looks up, perplexed, and proceeds to eat the rest of her meal with her hands. She's too busy and Effie's too repulsed to notice, but I grin. My stomach starts complaining around the third course, and I notice Katniss is slowing down as well.

We make our way to another compartment to watch recaps of the Reaping, which is mandatory viewing anyways. It's odd sitting on a fancy couch instead of watching with my family crouched around our old worn out TV, relieved that we've made it another year, but this is my new reality. I lean back in the plush cushioning to assess my new mortal enemies.

The Tributes from 1, 2 and 4 are naturally imposing. They're known as the Careers; though training for the Games is strictly forbidden, the children in the districts more favored by the Capitol get opportunities to train. Becoming a Victor is so revered in those districts that almost always the position is filled by a volunteer, usually in the older age bracket, eager to prove themselves in the arena. I can't help but wonder if this is another Capitol-infused scare tactic to prove to us that they can play favorites and there's not a thing we can do. At the same time it achieves a sense of distrust between the Districts. Two birds with one stone, as it were.

We watch as one by one, fledgling Tributes are called and take their place at the front of various crowds. Volunteers spring up from the Career Districts, as anticipated, and the usual mix is flushed out from the other Districts. District 12 is featured last, of course, and instead of paying attention to the screen, I watch Katniss out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if she notices that she stops breathing. I'm vaguely aware of myself mounting the steps and Haymitch's now famous head-dive.

"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation," Effie remarks coolly. "A lot about televised behavior."

Leave it to a Capitol resident to bring that up. Television appearances are the last thing anyone worries about in 12, I think to myself. A laugh bursts forth from my mouth, startling even me. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year," I spit out.

"Every day," Katniss says, smirking. It's the closest thing that we've ever had to a conversation.

"Yes," Effie mocks, venom in her voice. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

As if on cue, Haymitch appears in the car doorway, leaning on it for support. I can smell toxic liquor fumes from my spot on the couch. He staggers a few feet into the compartment, trying to focus his eyes.

"I miss supper?" he asks, wobbling on foal-like legs. He then proceeds to vomit all over himself and the carpet. He tries to take a step forwards, but trips and lands face-first in the puddle.

"So laugh away!" Effie hisses on her way past us. Making a face at the stench, she skirts the mess and disappears from view.


End file.
